


Aria of the Lost

by Cân Cennau (cancennau)



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Established Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancennau/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No soldier songs, I said. No Indian love lyrics. What does she sing? The Army of Today is All Right and the Kashmiri Love Song." A missing scene from Problem At Sea. Poirot finds out why Hastings dislikes the songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aria of the Lost

Poirot looked once again out the boat window. The festivities around where he was sitting were in full swing - one of the passengers had taken stage and had began singing rather boisterously, and the others were either paying attention rapturously, or pretending to be raptured. Poirot did not bother taking note of who was interested and who wasn't - there were far curiouser things afoot on board.

Poirot knew Hastings had in fact organized much of the entertainment on board tonight, and yet the man himself was stood on deck, apparently not taking any part in any of the festivities. In fact, Hastings had barely looked back at the party unfolding in the cabin, instead staring out at the sea. The young man Bates was also outside, at Hastings' shoulder, speaking to him. Poirot felt a little curl of jealousy that Hastings would talk to Bates and not himself, but he squashed it down - if Poirot wanted Hastings to speak to him, he would have to go to him, like Bates had gone to him.

Poirot got up. The movement drew attention from Kitty and Pamela, the two young girls on the ship. Poirot smiled at them, before heading for the door. The two young girls watched him from their corner with interest, but were soon distracted again as the singing woman ploughed into another verse. Whilst attention was diverted, Poirot took his chance and slipped outside.

The night was cold, Poirot noticed immediately, and he drew his coat closer to him. Hastings and Bates had not yet noticed his presence, and so as he approached, he overheard some of their conversation.

"...no soldier songs, I said. No Indian love lyrics." Hastings was saying, sounding frustrated. "What does she sing? The Army of Today is All Right and the Kashmiri Love Song."

"You can't expect no better from civilians, sir." Bates replied, his voice erring on the smug side. Hastings shot him an annoyed look.

"We're all civilians now, Bates." he reprimanded sharply. Bates had the grace to look abashed and uncomfortable. He looked left and right, as if looking for a way to escape the situation. In doing so, he spotted Poirot approaching.

"Good morning, Mister Poirot," he said, sounding rather relieved. Poirot tipped his hat to him. Hastings didn't even turn around. Bates looked at his turned back worriedly, but seemed to place his own uncomfortable feelings above the feelings of Hastings, and hurried off down the ship. Poirot came to his friends side.

"You are not enjoying the evening, Hastings?"

Hastings jumped a little, before turning around with wide eyes. He seemed to have not realize Poirot had come up beside him.

"Oh hullo Poirot. Just thought I'd get some air. Not so keen on the music indoors." He gave a weak smile, which didn't convince Poirot for a minute. Hastngs seemed to realise this almost as soon as he gave the patchy attempt at the smile.

"Sorry." he murmured quietly. He turned back to the sea and stared out determinately, a flush present on his cheeks. Poirot shook his head. Hastings would never change.

"Arthur," Poirot murmured quietly, turning to face his partner, carefully positioning himself so that the people in the cabin could not discern what would pass between them. First names meant business, and Poirot was determined to root out Hastings underlying issue.. "I can see there is something bothering you. I do not wish it to interfere with events that you planned to enjoy. Please, explain to me what you are feeling."

"I'm fine, really-"

"Arthur." Hastings could see Poirot was not going to give up, but he seemed unwilling to discuss the matter. He turned back to the sea and seemed to ponder for a while. Poirot waited patiently at his side. A minute passed, then two, then three, and Poirot began to wonder whether Hastings would ever confess. He was about to leave him be and retire to the warmth of the cabin, when Hastings finally spoke.

"It's just the song choice. The night before the Battle of Ypres." he finally said, his voice melancholy and sad." We were singing... well, anything really. We were just boys. We didn't know what was going to happen the next day." He heaved a deep sigh, and rubbed his face with his hand.

"And these songs... remind you of the war?"

"Not just the war. Of people. Actual people. Everyone in there, the war is just a bunch of statistics. Every death is just another number they see in the paper. Even to the Colonel, and the General - even you, Poirot - these songs to them are just that - songs. But not to me. There are faces and laughter and smiles and death connected to those words-"

He cut off suddenly, dropping his head. His knuckles were white against the boats railing, and what little of his face Poirot could see was contorted in pain. Slowly, Poirot stepped forwards, reached out and lay a hand on Hastings' arm. Hastings flinched away in surprise, but soon returned his arm to Poirot's touch, even laying his hand over Poirot's in acceptance.

"Tell me what occurred, _mon brave_. Why do these things affect you so?" Poirot murmured, letting his other hand creep up Hastings' back, and rest at the curly base of his hair.. Hastings sighed, and looked almost as if he would refuse to speak about it, but Poirot squeezed his hand reassuringly, and Hastings drew strength from it.

"Little Tommy," he began, and his resolve almost broke again, but Hastings forced himself onwards. "Little Tommy and James- or Crows Feet, as we used to call him. He was such a thin lad, amazingly tall though. But the were the musical duo, keeping our spirits up, singing songs, like 'It's a Long Way To Tipperary' and 'Keep The Home Fires Burning', mostly war themed songs, sometimes more popular ones ... Did you know, Kashmiri Love Song- that was the last song they sung. General told them both to shut up halfway through it, but they carried on, whispering the last few verses..."

Hastings smiled a little wistfully, but Poirot saw sadness behind the smile. He almost didn't want to know what happened to these two men, but Poirot knew Hastings would need to speak about the experience if he wished to free himself from the pain. He tightened his grip on his hand, and Hastings gripped back with such ferocity that Poirot almost drew back from him.

"They died." Hastings continued softly. "At least, James did. We only found his body. But him and Tommy were like a pair of shoes - would never see one without the other. If one was dead..." He fell silent.

"There was no closure for you over the death of Monsieur Tommy, _n'est pas?_ " Poirot asked quietly. Hastings shook his head, overwhelmed by emotion and unable to speak. The hand that rested on Hastings' back began rubbing calming circles on it, and Poirot himself murmured soothing nonsense into his ear. Hastings clung to his every word, his hand tightly wound around the hand Poirot wasn't using to soothe his back.

They stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, simply holding one another and drawing comfort from their beings. Hastings seemed to reign in his wanton emotions as time wore on, and became much calmer, more composed, but still clung to Poirot like a limpet. They perhaps would've stayed that way for a little longer, but a shrill voice broke their bubble of peace and quiet.

"Mister Poirot! Mister Hastings!" Both men turned at their names, Poirot's hand dropping smoothly from Hastings' back, and Hastings' hand discreetly untangling itself from Poirot's other hand.

"Mademoiselle Pamela!" Poirot called out cheerfully. She smiled back at them both and waved.

"Come quickly!" she said. "Colonel Clapperton is going to show us more card tricks now!"

"Give us a minute, we shall join you soon." Poirot replied. Pamela nodded in understanding, before rushing back inside. Poirot turned back to Hastings, who looked a little put out that their moment had been shattered.

"I suppose we'd better go indoors then, old man." Hastings said sullenly. Poirot nodded in agreement, but before Hastings could take more than two steps, Poirot touched hs elbow once more.

"Thank you for telling me, _mon chou_." Poirot said quietly, patting Hastings' elbow once more before dropping his hand to his side. Hastings smiled at him - a genuine smile this time - and simply offered his arm to Poirot. Poirot took it with an impish grin, and they returned to the festivities, content and calm.


End file.
